


a door that love walks through

by saintofbeasts



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Lyrium Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 14:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintofbeasts/pseuds/saintofbeasts
Summary: Seven times members of the Inquisition met the Endless.





	

There was a pounding and pulsing in his head, behind his eyes, a heartbeat throbbing with stabbing pain. All he could see was red and black, his eyes pressed shut against the weak firelight. He was shivering and clammy, and the weight of his clothing pressed on his skin like metal on bruises. 

He recited facts to himself silently, behind clenched teeth. He was in Skyhold, not Kirkwall, not Kinloch. He was Commander of the Inquisition forces. He was clean of lyrium and the kit was downstairs. He had good soldiers relying on him to command, to stand as strength. Cassandra would not let him step down, because the Inquisition needed him. He was in Skyhold. The sky was not coming down around him -- 

He squinted at the hole in his ceiling, abruptly aware that the sensation of claustrophobic pressing could well herald another piece of his ceiling crumbling down. It was dark, deep in the night now, with the coals in his fireplace casting a dim glow that seemed to pulse in the corner of his vision. His stomach clenched as the room seemed to roll like a ship, and he squeezed his eyes tight again. 

One dose would fix this. There was just enough in the box downstairs --

His mouth was dry and sour, and he pawed blindly at the table beside his bed for a waterskin. When he uncorked the skin and stumbling tilted it towards his mouth, he rinsed his mouth and spit into his chamber pot before drinking deeply from the skin. The water was a little musty, but it stayed down - which made it an infinitely sweet comfort. He was still drinking when he heard a stranger’s voice strangely near, a singsong cadence whose pitch rose and fell with the pulsing of his migraine. 

“It’s a long way down, a long way down, if you get sleep or if you get none.” It sounded like a girl, an unfamiliar voice with an Orlesian accent, a tapping of feet or hands matching the rhythm of her words. It was a lightning flash of distraction to worry about her safety, out so late. She must be up on the ramparts, going to one of the empty rooms, though he didn’t remember any visiting dignitaries or new agents being posted near to him.

“That’s not the most reassuring song for the medieval fortress facing down the end of the world,” came a man’s voice through the girl’s singing, dryly amused. Also an unfamiliar voice, with a flat affect - a dwarf, perhaps? Here, in the privacy of his rooms and his misery, Cullen couldn’t suppress a flinch at the bluntness of the man’s words. “Come on, kid, what are we doing here?”

“It feels like somebody drowning. There are lots of places here falling in and out of my house.” Perhaps it was the migraine or the withdrawal, but it sounded like their voices were approaching the window. Cullen grunted pain and squinted an eye open again to see what looked like soap bubbles rising past his narrow window. A large one with an iridescent pink sheen broke against the stone and there was the scent of wine, leather, and drying elfroot, a sense memory of warm lips and the dizzy, overwhelming sensation of absurd risk - a memory, his memory, from before the Hero’s Harrowing - and he almost missed the girl’s next words. “There’s a man up here, drowning in blue. He doesn’t one to be one of mine, but he is.”

His guts clenched in fear and he grunted, trying to sit up. “What the bloody hell-” was all he could get out, words catching like gravel in his throat. He coughed and shuddered as the room spun, but dragged himself to sit upright. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Another bubble drifted in, followed by a skinny, pale elven girl who seemed to be wrapped in a patched quilt, a men’s tunic, and two different boots. She was followed by a scruffy looking gray dog; the dog floated through the window before falling to the floor with a scrabbling thump. It whined and backed into a corner; Cullen empathized. Her hair was wild curls, reddish in the dim light of the room, with strange green ties braided in, and she has netted gloves and tarnished on her hands. She was young, too young to have gone through her Harrowing yet, far too young for this kind of magecraft, and Cullen felt bile and panic rise into his chest. He couldn’t smite her like this, he couldn’t even stand, and this abomination was staking some kind of claim on him.

“You’ve gone and upset him worse, Del,” said the dwarf’s voice. It seemed to be coming from the dog’s muzzle and Cullen stared at it. “And you’re ignoring gravity again.”

“I think that this way was much more fun,” she said, but her bare feet touched down gently on the wood of his floor. She drifted towards him, smelling of something sugared and burnt, and offered him her hand. He felt like he was frozen in place, a mouse in the gaze of a hawk, like he’d been cursed, like his heart was going to beat out of his chest and his stomach was going to escape through his mouth. He considered, as though from a great distance away, that her eyes were different colors, one green as the Breach and one blue and glowing. She tilted her head and smiled at him; her smile was sweet and a little lopsided and sad beyond measure. “I didn’t mean to scare you worse, just to come and see you again. I’ve seen you before, or maybe I will see you again, but I never got to say hello.” 

He felt his own hand, still shaking, knuckles swollen from clenched fists, rose to grasp hers. She was shockingly warm, for her patchwork clothing. The nausea was still sitting in his stomach and his heart was still pounding, but he could feel the stabbing, pounding migraine breaking like storm clouds. He inhaled sharply and tried to tug his hand back, but her tiny hand suddenly felt like iron bands on his. 

“I’ve never seen you before in my life, girl,” he said. His voice was steadier now, but still rough. She narrowed her eyes and he felt the wave of wanting, the knowledge that if he just had one dose, he’d be able to stop this nightmare in its tracks. 

“I wouldn’t push too hard on that point, ser,” said the dog, “she’s met you now. It’s better to just try to make the best of her gifts than to be rude.” He then started scratching his ear with his hind leg, and Cullen felt the tension building in him break like the migraine surely was doing. Surely, if this was a demon or an abomination, they would think of something more convincing than a talking hound. Clearly, this was his feverish, addled mind, and the damnation would hold for another day.

“Fine, then.” He slowly stood, and he knew that this could not be reality - the stiffness of his joints was gone, replaced by a loose, disconnected feeling. The danger was not gone, but - he was no mage, and he wasn’t certain she was real enough to be an abomination. Standing, he towered over the young woman and it seemed like as he stood, her hair writhed like snakes, clipping itself into strange metal clips. “Young woman, I still don’t know your name. It seems like I should have that if we’re-” he stopped himself from inviting her friendship, though it was on the tip of his tongue - “if we’re to be acquainted.” 

Her smile turned into a small, sly grin, and she stood on her toes to lean into him, mismatched lyrium and Fade eyes intense. “You don’t need to know my name to belong to me, Cullen,” she said. The humming of her voice resonated in him like the damned drug as she continued. “You met me when they used your blood in Kinloch, and Kirkwall tried to bring you back to me.” She dropped back down and pulled away entirely, seemingly distracted by the buckles of his armor hanging across the room.

His hand slowly fell back and he noticed his mouth was dry again. “Then. If we are… acquainted, what are you? A desire demon?” 

“That’s my sibling, not me.” She cocked her head like a sparrow, confusion in her voice. “I can’t help you very much if you want to talk to them. They don’t like me. They don’t like anyone, really…” She touched the furry pelt on his pauldrons and it was like her fingers were paint, streaking the black fur with red and green. 

The dog sighed from his corner and stretched before trotting over to the girl. “Milady, I think it’s high time we let the man rest. You’ve confused him more than enough for one night, and I’m starting to get hungry.” He bumped his muzzle up to her hand, and the scattered focus and glow zeroed back in on the dog. Cullen could feel the thick fog of exhaustion and broken migraine creeping in around the edges as he stumbled back onto the bed. 

She drifted up close to him again, and he was somehow unsurprised to see the paint fade from her hands as they tugged the blanket back over him. His confusion was muted, and he could feel sleep tugging on the corners of his mind. 

“It’s Delerium,” he heard her say as he closed his eyes. “De-lyrium, even.” Her strange giggle followed him down into true rest, the likes of which he hadn’t had for days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dissociation while having a migraine break is a surreal as hell experience.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from TV on the Radio's "Stork and Owl":  
>  _"Owl said "Death's a door_  
>  _That love walks through_  
>  _In and out, in and out_  
>  _Back and forth, back and forth"_
> 
> Tags, ratings, and warnings to be updated as needed through the posting. Unbetad. Kudos, feedback, and encouragement are welcome. Please be gentle with your concrit, dear reader, as the author is woefully out of practice.


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